


Fire Drills

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, M/M, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-30
Updated: 2010-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 14:33:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean feels like he's on fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Drills

Dean feels like he's on fire.

It's a low steady burn that's somewhere between an itch and a vicious, continuous stab of want.

He's laid out on the motel bed where Sam put him, God knows how many hours ago. One arm wrapped round his middle, the other fisted in the sheet. The shaking is worse every time he moves; every time he tries, desperately, to find a cool spot. To ease the sick thumping in his head and the flares of desperate, miserable arousal that keep sparking through him.

His breath is just a wave of heat that feels suffocating where it flares back off the pillow. Leaving him twisting and twitching and groaning through his teeth.

Sam's pacing somewhere in the dark, the rough, heavy tread of his boots thumping from one side of the room to the other. He's trying to be quiet, talking to Castiel.

"Why can't we just -"

"It has to be a demon." Castiel's voice is low and firm.

There's a hard crack, like Sam has hit something.

"That's just great, since pretty much every demon on the planet wants us dead."

Sam had been the one to kill the demons and get him out of that messed up place. Dean remembers that much. He remembers how the bare skin of Sam's palm had felt on his sweat-drenched shoulder. It'd felt like turning inside out. Felt like someone was pulling his bones out of his skin and he'd ended up on the floor with his eyes rolling.

Touching Castiel felt the same.

Dean's head thumps again sharply, a gnawing, solid ache of want and pain. The world whites out briefly, turns into nothingness and a roar of blood in his ears. When it finally stops he's shaking weakly, and Sam's gone.

The want is still there, that stabbing need that's all edges and bright light that's going to kill him, going to _kill him_ , and it'll serve him right. It's like the world's most hilarious damn irony that he's going to burn out like this.

Dean barely hears the door, or the footsteps. Though he feels the hand that tugs at his shoulder. Carefully through two layers of fabric.

"Dean."

He grunts protest but turns over.

Sam's huge where he looms over him in the darkness, huge and apologetic and pained. Like he's done something bad. Something really bad.

Dean's seen that face too many times.

"I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry, Dean."

Dean tries to catch him, tries to ask him what he's done but the bed's already shifting back into position. Sam's boots are gone. The tread of them disappearing across the carpet and out the door and Dean's left staring at the swing of a long wool coat that really, really doesn’t belong.

It takes Dean a long moment to think to look up.

 _God damn it_ , Sam.

Dean grits his teeth and tries to speak.

"What did he give you." It's a slurring wreck of words.

"Nothing at all," Crowley says quietly. "Though I don't suppose you'll believe that. You are incredibly annoying and people seem to die around you with alarming regularity. So it's no wonder people often demand some sort of incentive to help you."

Dean shakes his head.

"The angel was very persuasive, and _earnest,_ " Crowley offers, like that explains everything.

Dean grits his teeth and glares.

Crowley rolls his eyes, settles into the chair shoved close to the side of the bed and very carefully crosses one leg over the other.

"Now, we could spend a very long, very tedious night staring murderously at each other. Before you die a slow and probably horribly painful death. Or you could touch me and see what happens."

Crowley looks like he couldn’t care less either way.

Dean lasts an hour, groaning through his teeth and suffering through his own nerves trying to tear themselves apart. Before he reaches out. Hand hovering over the lazy curl of Crowley's fingers. Because the last time he did this it was agony, bone deep, screaming agony.

He forces himself to touch. And there's a second's surprise when it's just skin, just the slide of warmth and the softness of Crowley's knuckles - before sensation rolls over him in a wave.

It smashes every thought apart in one go, leaves him digging his fingertips in and pulling, tugging the demon out of the chair, close, closer. He snatches at the edge of his tie and pulls him down and fucking _devours_ him. Wet, hard shoves of tongue and sharp digs of teeth and then Crowley's on the bed, coat flung to the floor behind him. Dean's growling, actually _growling_ into his mouth and listening to the answering vibration that's neither measured, nor cultured. Because this is what he needs, _this_. This hot shove of skin and teeth and muscle that he wants to climb inside and open for at the same time.

Dean's hands are already digging, pulling, prising cloth out of the way.

There's a barely restrained violence in the way he tears at the expensive suit, rips it apart to get at skin and there's no protest. There's the equally greedy dig of Crowley's fingers, that will leave bruises and the half-moons of nail marks wherever they catch.

Dean loses his own shirt in a tear of sound, the pieces of it snapped free of his arms and throat and then he's pressed back into the sheets, jeans unsnapped and jerked down his legs with his shorts.

This, fuck, yes, this is what he needs. This is what the magic was for. There's an unsteady, impatient scramble in the sheets. Then he has his hands flat on the wall, knees spread. He's begging now, slurring words out in fragments and pieces, begging for the hot fever-slide of Crowley's hands and the weight of him. Dean gets it, gets it all, he's opened up, stretched out and then filled. So quick and so hard he can't breathe, he can't speak. There's nothing there but the animal shove of Crowley inside him. The shudder of dark, vicious want, over and over again. He drops his head and tilts his hips and takes it.

It doesn’t stop when he comes the first time, or the second.

It doesn't stop when Dean's a breathless, shaky mess. Until he's wrecked and sore and hurting but still sliding slowly back into the shove and press of heat inside him. The magic comes apart in pieces, lets him fall back down. Until he's somewhere closer to himself again. Somewhere that feels like it can breathe again, gasping and wincing and aching and then panting into the sheets when it snaps completely.

He's soft and sticky and sore. It feels like the magic and the sex and the relief has hollowed him out completely.

Crowley stills above him, on top of him, inside him.

Dean grunts and pushes back with his hips. Because he's not so much of a prick that he isn't going to let the guy finish. He started this fucked up mess after all.

And if he spreads his thighs and rocks back into it a little, no one's going to tell.


End file.
